


And the Song Was Wordless

by Lavosse



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Barricade Day, Canon Compliant, M/M, Meaningful Eye Contact, Minor Violence, Other, Running from the law, criminal activity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-02
Updated: 2016-08-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 23:22:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7661152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavosse/pseuds/Lavosse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It turns out a revolution is the perfect time to disappear.<br/>Or, Babet is sarcastic, Jehan makes (and breaks) a promise, and Claquesous dies (or maybe doesn't).</p>
            </blockquote>





	And the Song Was Wordless

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marius_pont_de_bercy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marius_pont_de_bercy/gifts).



> I picked the brick apart an awful lot for this, so I hope it's satisfactory :)  
> The title is from the poem [Everyone Sang](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poems/detail/57253) by Siegfried Sassoon.

Three weeks before now, none of them had any idea what was coming.

It was Babet who really started it, though, if unintentionally.

Babet was fluent in the language of sarcasm without self-deprecation, a rare and admirable talent, and so he and the brute known as Gueulemer (an avid pupil of sarcasm) conversed in said dialect as they walked each other amicably back to their respective bolt-holes after a difficult and unprofitable night.

“At least the rest of us don’t hawk our services like street magicians,” Gueulemer was saying, voice little more than a low rumble.  Between his naturally deep voice and proclivity towards slang, his words were difficult to understand.  This leant him the illusion of stupidity, which had served him well many times over.  “In fact, half the time, you actually _are_ a street magician.”

They slipped into an alley.  It was just before five o’clock and there were no people about, but one of the things that marks a criminal is an unwillingness to walk under the streetlights.  The souls of those in the dark do not take well to being illuminated.

Babet turned and spat on the ground, a habit Montparnasse was trying and failing to break him of, before replying.  “At least _I’m_ making money, asshole.”

“As soon as the feds start gaping ‘bout that travelling ‘dentist’ or that shady art vendor who changes streets with the walkers, you’re screwed.  They know you.”

By this he meant: _When the police start wondering about your various businesses_ ( _walker_ referred to a police patrol) _they’ll recognize you for what you are._

“Me?” Babet laughed harshly.  “It’s you and Sous what’re in trouble.  The coppers don’t even gotta recognize his face, they just gotta find a skinny twerp in a fancy mask.”

Gueulemer was silent, because the words were true and hit far too close to home.  The Gorbeau house affair had disturbed him greatly, though Babet had apparently thought nothing of it; the police had recognized Claquesous on sight, and that had sent a jolt of shock through Gueulemer like nothing else.

Babet seemed to realize something was off, and so they continued on without speaking, as suits the hour before dawn.

**        * *       **        * *       **       * *      **  **             * *       **        * *       **       * *

Two weeks before now, Montparnasse curled, catlike, around a sleepy Jehan, sated and entirely useless.

“Love you,” he mumbled, planting kisses along Jehan’s clean-shaven jaw.

Jehan responded in kind, turning their head to kiss Parnasse’s forehead.  “That was incredible.  You’re incredible.  As always.”

Parnasse grinned against their neck. 

Both of them fell silent.  Jehan began to fall asleep.

“Jehan,” Parnasse said softly, after a long stretch of quiet.  “Is your Enjolras really going through with his riot?”

“It is not a _riot_ , it is an _insurrection_ ,” Jehan replied, as offended as they could force themself to be.  This did little but make Parnasse think they were attempting an impression of Enjolras; he laughed quietly. 

“If anyone is, it’s him,” Jehan said seriously.  Montparnasse sobered.  “And he’s not _my_ Enjolras.”

“What are you going to do?” Parnasse sat up, staring intently.

“I don’t understand,” Jehan said obtusely, clearly understanding. They attempted to burrow further into the mound of blankets. “Must we speak of this now? I would much rather have you hold me.” Their voice softened.  It took all of Parnasse’s willpower not to give in.

 

After a moment, Jehan sighed.  “If Enjolras says we’ll succeed, it is so, love.  I’ve never trusted a man as I trust him.”

“Not even me?” Parnasse tried to feign hurt, but his anxiety was too real to feign anything else.

“Sometimes I wonder if perhaps you’re here only to take my purse while I sleep,” Jehan said, smiling.  “Don’t be silly, Parnasse.  Of course I trust you.”

“Then trust me on this,” Parnasse said forcefully, pulling Jehan up so they were eye-to-eye.  “This has all the signs of a foolhardy riot no man would gamble on.  If Enjolras stops believing in your success, get out of there.  Promise me, Jehan.  Please.”

“I swear it,” Jehan said.  “By the moon.”

It was not a lie.  Not exactly, anyway.

**        * *       **        * *       **       * *      **  **             * *       **        * *       **       * *

A week before now, Gueulemer and Claquesous were at an impasse.

“Y’know I’m right, Sous,” Mer was saying.  He wasn’t letting up.

Claquesous’ nostrils flared in irritation, not that Mer could tell, what with the mask.  “You’re wrong.  You don’t know what you’re talking about,” they replied.  Their voice was a cold as they could make it.  They knew this wasn’t fair, but they were too hurt to make themself care.  “I can take care of myself.  You know that.”

“’course I do,” Mer said.  He was keeping his words carefully quiet, keeping himself under control, and that hurt even more.  “’m just saying.  It’s another way to go.  Babet said there’s a good drugs market in England.  I’m not saying you can’t keep yourself safe.”

Claquesous huffed.  It was suddenly too hot under the mask.  They pulled it up and off, and considered dropping it on the floor, but only for a moment.  This one had been a present, several years ago, and it reminded them of things they didn’t want to think about right now.  Like how this was tearing them in half; like how Gueulemer looked so hurt but had always refused to stand down.

“I want,” Claquesous said.  They’d turned their back to Gueulemer to set their mask gently on the table.  “I don’t know; I can’t do this.  Oh my god, Mer, hold me.”

Gueulemer crossed the little apartment in three strides and gathered Claquesous’ smaller form into his arms.  “I know,” he said, and to Sous, there was nothing more calming than being held against Mer’s chest, feeling the deep rumble of his voice.  “Don’t worry, just think about it. Could be fun.”

Sous gave a harsh laugh.  “You’re funny.”

Gueulemer didn’t let them go, though.

“I’ll do it,” Sous said suddenly, mumbling the words into Mer’s shirt.  “God help me, I’ll do it.  Just…let’s not speak of it.  Let’s have these last days.”

“Anything,” Gueulemer affirmed, even though there was too much planning to be done for him to promise that.  This, this little matter of jumping aliases and cities like both of them had done before, was making Claquesous tremble, and Claquesous had killed people in cold blood.  They didn’t _tremble._

“Shush,” he whispered, as if he could comfort Sous like one would a child.  Gueulemer was, he’d been told, a beast.  He had no need to know of things like comfort.  All the same, though, he shushed Claquesous and leaned down enough to kiss their forehead.  “This’ll be fine.  The police are idiots, and if there’s anyone who can pull it off, it’s you, babe.”

In the long quiet evening, Claquesous put their arms around Gueulemer’s waist and smiled.  “I know.”

We, narrating this account, are aware we have the perfect opportunity to fade to black in this instance; however, we feel we would be robbing the reader of this conversation’s end, which would truly be a crime.

Perhaps, then, Gueulemer did not know comfort, but he knew quite a bit of Claquesous, and exactly what would put them at ease.

“It’s not too late yet,” he said quietly.  “You wanna go mug some bourgousie?”

Claquesous grinned a wicked grin.  “I love you,” they said.

**        * *       **        * *       **       * *      **  **             * *       **        * *       **       * *

An hour before now, Montparnasse barreled into headquarters.

We must ask the reader to bear with us, for as long as we are depicting these events, we must explain our choices in describing both Jehan and Claquesous, or more specifically, our choices regarding personal pronouns. Jehan, were they alive today, would be greatly distraught to be referred to by the masculine pronoun, though in this time they tolerated it for lack of other choice. We, in our pursuit of truth, have chosen to use the neuter for the sake of the reader.

Claquesous, on the other hand, was simply so obscurely androgynous when they joined Patron-Minette that they were referred to using the neuter, a turn of events they were quite satisfied with.

But we digress. What Patron-Minette called ‘headquarters’ was a hole of an apartment, a hideous thing that had come furnished with an ugly, chunky table and a chest of drawers in the style of twenty years ago.  The only redeeming point of the place was that it didn’t draw attention from the outside; that, and it had a disproportionately large kitchen area that they’d transformed into a closet in which to store weapons and props for disguises.

 

Montparnasse hadn’t been seen by anyone since the night before, and now, the reason was apparent.

Nobody in the room had heard Parnasse coming, so absorbed were they in the planning of a potentially lucrative robbery.

“Parnasse?” said several people at once, including Brujon, who was there fresh out of the clink.

Parnasse was breathing heavily, and he looked, upon close inspection, a _little_ disheveled, which was a sure sign that something was very wrong.  The last time he’d looked like this, Jehan had had a mild cold.

“It’s Jehan,” Parnasse said.  “The barricades.”

Babet was on his feet in a flash.  “Plans off, boys.  You two—” he waved a hand at Gueulemer and Claquesous “—getcherselves dolled up,” by which he meant, _disguise yourselves_.  Then he turned back to Montparnasse.  “Full report.”

“The national guard were preparing to launch an attack.” He was beginning to regain his breath, but his eyes were no less wild.  “They were loading their rifles when I left.”

Babet swore.  “I hate that this is something I care about.  Who gives a shit about revolutionaries? Apparently, the leader of a notorious gang.”

Montparnasse was apparently too distraught to even snark back. 

Babet sighed.  “Well, I’m coming.  Get a different hat and grab me the getup while you’re in there.”

**        * *       **        * *       **       * *      **  **             * *       **        * *       **       * *

Ten minutes before now, Babet decided Montparnasse was officially insane.

“The _National Guard_?” he screeched.  “This is impossible!”

“Boss, all due respect, but shut it,” Gueulemer said.

“Babet, my dear friend, the choice is either save Prouvaire or lose Parnasse,” Claquesous urged.

Babet growled.  “Parnasse, you’d better know what you’re doing.”

Montparnasse drew himself up to his full height.  “You insult my achievements, monsieur.”

As the group approached the barricade, flitting from shadow to shadow, they saw with dawning horror that, while the barricade still held, there had clearly been an assault upon it in their absence. 

The wall of furniture and various debris stood tall, and gave life to the phrase _more than the sum of its parts._ The thing was a messy jumble of random material, most of it stolen, but it stood majestic as it crumbled, the way a criminal bravely facing his death can be noble.

Some of the Guard had retreated into a side street and were causing quite the hubbub, so that was where Babet lead the other four (Brujon had smacked a fist into his other palm and declared that, yes, this was absolutely something that sounded like fun, and had come along.).  They appeared to have backed someone against the dead end of the street, and as soon as that someone was seen to have a head of pretty red hair, Parnasse started to shake.  Gueulemer had to hold him back from charging into the line of guardsmen. 

“We have a plan, Montparnasse,” Babet hissed.  “Go do your part.”

Montparnasse nodded distractedly and hesitantly walked away, glancing back every few seconds.

“Brujon, go keep an eye on him,” Babet groaned.

He then turned to Claquesous.  “You gonna do this?”

Sous nodded, no hesitation.

“Then _go_.”

Claquesous nodded again.  “Mer?”

As Gueulemer and Claquesous snuck away in the direction of the barricade, Babet tugged off his battered greatcoat, rolling the mass of it into a cylindrical shape and tying the sleeves, thus disguising it as a sort of bag.

In relating this, we realize we have been negligent in our descriptions.  Babet was clad, under the coat, as one of the National Guard, and looked quite fetching, if you asked him.  This was what he’d meant when he’d told Montparnasse to fetch “the getup” while he was searching out a change of hat.  Nobody knew how he’d gotten his hands on it; it’d appeared in headquarters one very early morning.  Babet, streaked with something that was perhaps dirt and perhaps blood, had grumbled “don’t fucking ask,” and that had been that.

Now it came in useful, as Babet pushed into the crowd of men trapping Jehan Prouvaire.

Jehan was trembling, but defiant; their knees were knocking together, but they did not fall.

Babet snatched a rifle off a soldier’s arm as their leader shouted, “Last words, boy?” One of the nearby guardsmen was aiming carefully, clearly having been charged with executing Prouvaire.  His mouth was set in a grim line.  Lawful citizens were silly, Babet thought, not for the first time.  Killing wasn’t so hard if you just gave up your morals.  Babet had found himself perfectly content without his.

He edged up next to the guardsman and made an attempt to catch Prouvaire’s eye.  When Prouvaire saw him, their eyes went wide, their expression shocked and horrified and grossly relieved all at once. 

The leader, misinterpreting this look, grinned, though not with real glee.  It was feigned, and there was disgust underneath, though at the act or his captive Babet couldn’t tell.  The man’s ability to act was probably what had gotten him promoted. 

“Just now realizing this is the end?” he shook his head.  “I pity you.  You can still get out of this if you tell us what your friends have planned.”

Jehan, not taking their eyes off Babet, said, “Never,” in the smallest voice Babet had ever heard them use.  Babet nodded, and with exaggerated motions, mouthed, “ _Play dead._ ”

Jehan gave a tiny nod, then swallowed hard.

“Last words?” The leader demanded again.

Jehan flung a disparaging look at the man more disconcerting and shaming than any rude gesture.  “Long live France!” they cried, punching the air.  “Long live the future!”

As the guardsman-executioner pulled the trigger, Babet “stumbled” into his shoulder. 

The bullet hit Jehan, and they went down with a pained cry, blood darkening their already powder-blackened shirt.  They made a few choking sounds, as though drawing in their last tremulous breaths, before laying still.

Babet thought: _This is the end. Montparnasse is going to strangle me and desecrate my body_.

One of the guardsmen stepped forward, bayonet ready to poke at Prouvaire’s body, or perhaps stab them to be sure of their demise, but before he got too far, an enormous crash echoed further down the side street.

The Guard was thrown into disarray. The leader cried out for several of the company to investigate, then, taking a look at Prouvaire’s still figure, revised his decision. “Sarkozi, get your company back to the barricade and rejoin Baptiste. Allard and co., come with me.” And he strode quickly away.

“Sir!” Babet called, assuming a stiff posture. “How shall I dispose of the body, sir?” He hoped it wasn’t a body, desperately.

The leader waved a hand, as if he truly didn’t care. “Get it out of the way. Make any identification visible.  Join Sarkozi when you’re done.”

Babet nodded sharply. “Yes, sir.”

Shouts could be heard from the barricade as Babet casually approached Prouvaire. “Are you alright?”

There was too much blood and cloth in the wound for Babet to tell how bad it was, but it wasn’t buried in Prouvaire’s chest, and that had been the goal.

“Damn you,” Prouvaire replied bitterly, cracking an eye open. “I had my heart set on dying nobly.”

“Yeah, don’t give a shit,” Babet spat. We should like to make excuses for his language (stress, say) but we would be untruthful if we did anything of the kind. “Parnasse, why I can’t figure, can’t live without you. How’s the shoulder?”

“It hurts more than I thought it would,” said Prouvaire, “getting shot.” They tried to roll onto their back, but found it too painful.

“When Gueulemer comes back, he’ll carry you,” Babet assured, with considerably more kindness. “Rest easy.”

Prouvaire refused to rest easy.

“They’ll have my name,” they groaned. “How shall I go on? I have committed treason! Not that I regret a moment—”

“Parnasse has a plan,” Babet said. Prouvaire quieted instantly.

“Alright.”

**        * *       **        * *       **       * *      **  **             * *       **        * *       **       * *

It is now, and Claquesous has found the perfect body.

It is stocky and well-built (perhaps even better than Claquesous themself, not that they will admit that) and not very tall, similar enough to be mistaken behind a mask. It is almost like a premonition of death, but for all intents and purposes, this body is Claquesous.

It suits Claquesous’ purposes to be dead.

The corpse’s limbs are flung akimbo, in directions that are not natural. Claquesous thinks that perhaps he was tossed over the barricade, like a dead man judged unworthy of being buried on sacred ground.

The body wears a porter’s jacket, worn at the shoulders and overlarge. With less than a moment’s hesitation, Claquesous pulls their mask from their face, snapping the string, and breaks it into several pieces. Crouching over the body, they tuck one fragment under the edge of the jacket, and leave the other two next to the body, as if it broke with his tumble from the proverbial church graveyard fence—the barricade.

“You look awful grave.”

It was Gueulemer, who’d accompanied them. “I am _digging_ a grave, Mer,” they said. “and I intend to lie in it. Let’s get out of here.”

As they scurried away, avoiding the huddling group of guardsmen waiting for their comrades to return, Gueulemer laughed under his breath. “This is the heist of the century, babe.”

“I know,” Claquesous said, dashing into the alley where Prouvaire lay, being fawned over by Montparnasse. “Why did I doubt you?”

Gueulemer grinned hugely, in a way that had made people liken him to a wolf. Now, it was more like a pleased dog. “We’re gonna go show those Brits a thing or two.”

“Here lies Claquesous,” the dead criminal murmured, and left their life behind.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, thank you *bows*  
> Please leave comments and/or kudos, or come yell at (congratulate, validate) me on [tumblr](http://lavosse.tumblr.com/).  
> XOXO


End file.
